You stumble out of the play and onto the street
no longer recognizing buildings and stores,
blaming the fabulist playwright who changed the rules-
having fish walk, stones talk and weep.
Because you’re transparent, not even your wife
knows you anymore – your kids play right through you,
the dog doesn’t sniff you or jump to be petted.
You haven’t learned how to value invisibility.
You seek out your first girlfriend and are appalled
because she’s old. Still, you lie at her feet.
You’re no longer hungry or thirsty and yearn to be,
but you don’t believe in ghosts or apparitions.
You try to backtrack your way to the theater
searching to find your imperfect solid body.
Yet, there weren’t any signs of grief in your home
your kids were laughing, your wife was humming.
Jerry Judge lives in Cincinnati with his rescue dog, Luna, who walks him twice daily. He also lives with two felines who, of course, rule. He has authored seven chapbooks and has been published in over fifty journals and anthologies. He has learned by experience that the only thing that counts is the next poem.